Sometimes it feels like he’s changing. Or maybe he’s just settling into us, into me, in ways I didn’t expect.
I love him—but love doesn’t excuse everything. Living together is suppose to mean effort on both sides. Not just consistent sex, and definitely not me stretching myself thin because I’m too wrapped up in him to say anything yet.
Maybe I am naive—this is the my first time actually living with a man—but I’m pretty sure bare-minimum wasn’t part of the deal.
? ? ?
It’s Saturday night, but instead of Arina and me running the streets like we used to, Levy and I settle on a date night. The kind of thing that should feel romantic. And it does—mostly. But there’s this thread of tension between us lately, tugging at the edges of everything, mostly because my wallet has been stepping up more than his, and my brain refuses to ignore it.
Trying to quiet the thoughts spinning in my head, I head to my side of the closet. If nothing else, I can control what I wear and how I look. I slide into a pair of ripped blue jeans, the frayed edges grazing my thighs, showing just enough ofthe tattoo beneath. Then a baby-blue crop top—soft, fitted, hugging me like it was made for my body alone.
When I step into my sandals, I glance back at Levy. He’s spread out across my bed like he owns the place—one arm behind his head, eyes following every move I make. His eyes track me with a lazy warmth, something soft and heated all at once, like watching me get dressed is just the trailer for whatever’s in his head.
“I think we’ve got a few minutes before the reservation,” he murmurs, glancing at his phone before tossing it aside.
Of course we do.
Usually, that low tone would make every doubt fade out, but tonight they cling to me anyway. Still, when he looks at me like that, it’s hard not to soften.
He pushes off the bed and closes the space between us, his hands settling on my hips with a warm, steady confidence that melts me without effort. His breath ghosts over my neck before his lips follow, leaving a trail of heat down the side of my throat. Each kiss lingering longer than the last, my pulse quickening despite the part of me still tallying dinner costs in the back of my head.
And just like that, I’m caught between wanting him and wanting him to do better. It’s kind of annoying that he has such power over me, but at the same time, my bodies craving it. Every kiss down my neck makes my mind forget the arguments, the doubts, the tension that’s been building between us.
Right now, all I feel is the way he wakes something reckless in me, even as I’m pushing my annoyance down where it won’t ruin the moment. But my body betrays me, reminding me not to give into the claiming glide of his hands on my ass, while also remembering just how dangerously good it feels to be wanted by him.
I press my hands to his chest and ease him back a little. “Levy, come on… hurry up and get dressed. I don’t want us flying down the highway to make it on time.”
His hands fall from my hips, and he just… stares at me. Not angry, not irritated—just searching my face like he’s trying to read something I’m not going to show. His lips part like he wants to speak, but nothing comes out. Then, without a word, he turns toward the closet and pulls out clothes, moving slower than usual, like he’s still processing the moment.
I sit on the edge of the bed, pulse racing hard enough to hear it in my ears. The room is quiet, but fuck—my mind isn’t.
I can’t believe I just told him no.
There’s a part of me that wants to call him back, to let him touch me, to fall right into the heat that always pulls us together. My body was right there, responding like it always does when he’s close. But the rest of me—the part carrying all the weight—is tired. I don’t have it in me, not after everything that’s been building between us.
I know he’s not rich. I don’t need him to be. I’m not asking for luxury or grand gestures. Hell, I’m not even expecting him to cover every bill. But I would like to see some fucking effort. I want a partnership. I want to feel like we’re building something together—not like I’m holding things up on my own. I’ve been stepping up more way than I should, hoping he’d notice, hoping he’ll meet me halfway without me having to spell it out.
I don’t need perfection—I just want to feel secure beside him. I want to know that I can lean on him the same way he leans on me. All I know is Ican’tdo that.
So yeah—my body might’ve been craving him. But my heart isn’t all the way in it right now.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I stare down at the floor, caught somewhere between guilt and confusion—my heart and my pride trying to out-argue each other. When I finally look up, he’s turning from the closet, fully dressed. Dark blue jeans that fit him like they were made for him, black Jordans, and a crisp white Polo with the top buttons undone just enough to make it look effortless. He matched my vibe perfectly. Even though I know this is just him trying to make me smile without even asking what’s wrong.
He doesn’t understand the root of what I’m feeling tonight, but he does know that when we look good together, it softens me.
It always does.
He grabs his keys, and we head out quietly, slipping into his car. The moment I close the door, that faint trace of his cologne wraps around me. It smells exactly like it did the first night I met him, that mix of spice and something soft I never learned the name of. And just like that night, it’s stirring up those stupid butterflies I try to pretend I don’t still get.
The music plays low, a soft beat filling the background while I lean back in the passenger seat, scrolling through my socials. I don’t feel like making small talk. Not right now. We’ll have plenty of time to talk once we get to dinner. For now, it’s easier to let the road and the music fill the space between us—even though I can feel his eyes flick toward me every so often as we get closer to the restaurant.
We pull into the parking lot with a few minutes to spare before our reservation. The glow from the restaurant’s red sign paint the windshield a deep red, the smell of smoked barbecue lingering in the air as people come and go.
I barely reach for the door when his hand finds my thigh, his body leaning across the console, eyes gentle yet unreadable.
“I love you, baby,” he says quietly, voice so convincing it almost pulls me out of my thoughts.
Almost.
